Fire and Frost
by Carapatzin
Summary: Romance, angst, ridiculous humor and sass, sexual situations, and other things: my collection of one-shots. Will contain meme prompts, random ideas that sprang out of my dumb head, and others things. Set in the same universe as Tale of Two Lavellans. (Rated M just to be safe, for future chapters.)
1. Beautifully Failed Expectations

_Hello all! Thought I'd get my one-shot series up and running, even though Tale of Two Lavellans and United We Stand, Divided We Fall are nowhere near done. Hope you enjoy! I can and will take prompt requests for one-shots here._

* * *

 **Chapter One:** Dorian has many expectations of Finn Lavellan during their first real conversation. Finn meets absolutely none of them. (Chapter 12 of ToTL, swapped to Dorian's perspective.)

* * *

 **Beautifully Failed Expectations**

Fire had always fascinated Dorian, ever since a young age. Maybe because it was lively, _real;_ it warmed you and kept you alive just as readily as it burned you if you got too close. Danger and soft heat, savage wildness and comfort all rolled into each flickering orange flame. The sheer power of it fascinated him, too, the way heat coursed through his hands when he called on it.

For now, though, in this freezing—emphasis on _freezing—_ night in the Hinterlands, the fire would just be his warmth.

He tried not to shiver where he sat, although Maker knew the temperature outside had dropped to absolutely offensive levels of cold. This was nothing like the balmy air of Tevinter, his _home_ whether he thought of it fondly or not.

"Quaint" was a good word to describe the Hinterlands, Redcliffe, all of it. A word that wouldn't ruffle too many feathers. Here there were none of the lovely, ancient buildings he was so used to seeing in Minrathous and Qarinus and Vyrantium—just sad, scuffed up peasants, grass and dirt and trees, and _livestock._ Never in Tevinter would he have nearly tripped over a chicken while walking along a road.

Still, he was here to stop Alexius, and stop him he would.

Not to mention he wasn't exactly welcome back home, with the way he'd left things.

He brought his attention back to the campfire in front of him, imaging the streets of Minrathous in its flickering, animated light, trying to curb his homesickness.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elf beside him cast him a curious glance, then turn back to looking at the campfire.

Finn was a strange one, Dorian mused, and not at all in a negative way. Elves down south tended to react angrily in the presence of a mage from Tevinter. The scale ranged from nervous glances, to lewd hand gestures, all the way to looking like they were about to attack on the spot. Yet Finn had done none of those things upon seeing Dorian. The elf had kept those lively blue eyes of his fixed on Dorian's every move, answering every question with a friendliness that Dorian was fairly certain wasn't faked.

Odd. Yet…pleasing.

Suspiciously, Dorian almost wondered if the snowy-haired Dalish man was just waiting to turn on him later. It wasn't the nicest of thoughts to have, yet Dorian had never considered himself a nice man.

He decided to strike up another conversation, just to see if he could figure Finn out a little.

"So," he said, "you're Dalish, yes? That's the word for it down south?"

He braced himself for a reaction. Perhaps ' _it's the word for it everywhere, you racist fuck.'_ Maybe a middle finger raised in his direction. Who knew, really?

Instead, Finn nodded. "That's it. For me, personally, you could probably swap out Dalish for Crazy-Arsehole-Elf and still be correct."

Dorian immediately found himself relaxing, and he laughed softly as he studied Finn's features. The elf really was nice to look at—straight nose, well-proportioned jaw, smooth tanned skin with a light golden tone, blue eyes that reminded Dorian of glacier water. And the blue tattoo lines sweeping from his forehead and down his cheeks, trailing down his neck, sweeping over toned muscles on tanned arms. He seemed to have nice hair, too; white as pure porcelain, fluffy, naturally in waves.

"I haven't seen any solid evidence for 'arsehole'," Dorian said. Really, if Finn thought _he_ was an arsehole, then he was completely deluded. "Crazy, though, is probably a fitting description. Not many people cause a blizzard in a Chantry in their zeal to take down a demon."

The ice had responded to Finn's calls in the Chantry with a wild readiness that Dorian had never seen before, and it fascinated him, to say the least. Not to mention Finn's fighting style, all staff arcs and strong movements and Dalish grace, was immensely pleasing to watch. He almost felt bad not helping Finn defeat the rage demon in there, but the fellow mage had fared just fine on his own.

"I see why the dwarf has dubbed you 'Frosty'," he added.

"Yeah…Varric does that." Finn's expression was fond, his gaze flicking minutely to the tent the dwarf had gone into.

The dirt was uncomfortably hard under Dorian's backside, and he seemed to be somewhat on a rather pointed pebble; he shifted and leaned a little to the side, bracing one hand on the ground.

May as well just come out and say it. "At any rate, I hope our people's shared histories don't cause any animosity between us. I _am_ here to help, after all."

 _And I'm rather enjoying your smile._

"Trust me," Finn said with a disarming chuckle, the orange glow of the fire casting shadows along the lines of his face as he looked at Dorian, "I'm the last person you'll have a problem with."

Another unexpected reaction. Finn barely even seemed Dalish, the way he just grinned charmingly and chattered about life rather than pointing an arrow at anything that breathed wrong.

His curiosity more than piqued, Dorian thought for a moment, holding his hand out to trail his fingers through the tendrils of flame. They brushed against his skin, warm and friendly and familiar.

After a moment, though, he drew his hand back to his side. "I'm curious, then…what is it like, to be a mage amongst the Dalish? I can't imagine your people have educational circles like we do in Tevinter."

He braced himself again. How might Finn respond to that? ' _Of course we don't have them. We're dirt poor because you people destroyed our homeland. Thanks for that.'_

"Terrifying, during the early years," Finn said instead, resting an elbow on one knee. There wasn't even a hint of irritability in his features. "A clan won't tolerate too many mages at a time. Had I not proven myself and been chosen as the Keeper's apprentice, I might've been thrown out of the clan to be wolf-fodder. We have to choose the clan's safety as a whole over an individual mage's."

What a foreign concept. Dorian whistled, intrigued. "Rather barbaric, don't you think?"

At this point, he was almost experimenting with Finn's friendliness, seeing if the elf would bristle at any of his questions.

"It is," Finn agreed, his voice mild. "Some castaway mages find their way to civilization and are taken in by an alienage, or by a clan that doesn't have too many already. Or brought to a circle. Those are the lucky ones. Most of them, well…get devoured by a wild animal."

And yet this one had survived, even with the odds so stacked against him. Dorian could see the wear and tear on Finn's features if he looked hard enough—lightly calloused palms, wiry muscles that spoke of years of physical labor, a wicked scar down the right side of his face.

"Such different lives we lead," he mused aloud. It was almost strange for them to sit side by side, Tevinter mage and elf, wealth and wilderness, fire and frost. "Lovely staff you have. May I take a look at it?"

The first time he'd asked that question—to a human mage, no less—he'd gotten a snarl and a vicious look. Yet Finn just said "sure" and slid the staff over their laps to Dorian, handing over the weapon he'd been holding like a precious possession all evening.

Dorian took a moment to study it, lifting it vertically. He could see the worn grip where Finn's right hand always rested, shallow depressions in the deep reddish brown of the wood. It was well-crafted, and strong; someone had put a great deal of effort into it.

"Mahogany?" he guessed. The grains felt soft under his palms.

"Rosewood," Finn corrected. Dorian looked over just in time and caught his smile. "I've had it since I was a child."

The wood had a noticeable chill to it, although it barely rivaled the frigid air all around them. "It's cold. Someone doesn't use many flame spells, do they?"

Finn laughed lightly, holding Dorian's gaze. "Not many, no. I suppose it's painfully obvious which element I prefer."

"You were skilled at a young age, I take it." Not wanting to be an inadvertent thief, Dorian returned the staff to Finn, who absentmindedly cradled it with his hands like he didn't even know he was doing it. "Considering you're sitting here and not a pile of rotting bones out in the forest."

Finn slipped into a smile again. "I'm all right at it. Enough for my clan, at least. And enough to not end up as a sad little elf-smear on the ground after the Battle of Denerim."

 _All right at it?_ Dorian found himself smirking.

"So you're of the humble variety," he said. "One does not survive the Fifth Blight by being ' _weeeeelll-I'm-sort-of-an-okay-mage,'_ Finn."

He'd only said the elf's name once before, and he found himself liking it, liking the way his tongue caressed the roof of his mouth when voicing the double 'n's.

Although if he thought about tongues and caressing too much…well, he didn't need to scare Finn off with that kind of talk. The fellow mage seemed attracted to him—which Dorian was used to, he had to admit—but he wouldn't knowingly seduce this one. Finn didn't deserve any sort of Tevene deception, no matter how good Dorian was at it.

No matter how tempting it suddenly was.

"But I digress," Dorian said, forcibly steering himself away from the fantasizing. "What was the battle like? What do you remember? I was always fascinated by it."

And Finn started talking, telling Dorian all about the fighting in Denerim, and just when Dorian thought he'd finished a sentence, he sprang into another one. His expressions were animated, excited, clear remembrance in his eyes. Dorian noted that Finn's accent grew even more pronounced the more he talked—a Starkhaven accent, from the lilting, unique sound of it. He went on for who knew how long, telling Dorian about the trip there, the organization of forces, the hordes of darkspawn, how much he'd actually enjoyed the frenzy of such a fight. ( _That_ Dorian could identify with.) But all too soon he was ending it with an "I just rambled, didn't I? How long did I go on? Sorry," as he tried to comb his own hair with his fingers.

"Ha!" Dorian couldn't contain his own burst of amused—and stupefied—laughter. "You're _sorry?_ For talking? I asked, didn't I?" Idly, pondering life, he rubbed his own jaw. "I can't say I don't understand enjoying a good battle."

Finn flashed him a happy grin, letting out a short breath of a laugh through his nose. "Glad _somebody_ does. It's embarrassing now—but I actually tried to bet one of the dwarves there that I could get an ice bolt in a hurlock's mouth. He, uh…I don't think he was amused."

Ah, gambling. A pastime both relaxing and habit-forming. Dorian was admittedly familiar with the concept.

"That sounds like an entertaining bet," he found himself saying. "I'll take it."

The elf next to him sputtered. Actually _sputtered._ It was a humorous, undignified noise, and Dorian actually found it endearing, if he'd allow himself to admit that even inwardly.

"You will?" Finn said, recovering himself.

"Surprised?" Dorian was _beyond_ amused. "I happen to like bets just as much. I'll bet you an ale that you _can't_ get an ice bolt into an enemy's mouth. And no cheating by splitting the thing's face open. It has to be perfectly in its mouth or you lose. One try only."

Finn's eyes sparked electric blue. "You're on. But if I win, it can't be shitty ale."

"That's a tall order," Dorian said, "seeing as we're in _Ferelden."_

Finn shifted, swiveling to face him a little, leaning a little closer with what Dorian assumed was a subconscious sense of interest. "You like a challenge, don't you? _Oh._ I've got one for you. I'll bet you can't chug an entire flagon of bad dwarven ale. Two silvers. If you spit any of it out, I win."

If Dorian still had access to his father's fortunes, he might've considered two silvers a sad, measly amount. But he'd been forced to sell his own birthright amulet just to give himself money after leaving Tevinter the way he did, so he wasn't exactly in a position to judge.

But _dwarven ale…_ sweet Maker. He snorted in disgust. Last time he'd had dwarven ale, it had tasted more like gravelly soil than alcohol, with a barbaric hint of dwarven blood and sweat. Not a pleasing drink. Yet Dorian found he couldn't just say _no._

" _Finn,"_ he said, "I hadn't taken you for a sadist." And yet… "I'll take that one as well, if I must. But if I'm going to be polluting myself with dwarven swill, I may as well make you suffer in return. How's this—whichever one of us can chug a flagon _faster_ wins the bet."

Finn scrunched up his nose. "Oh, _creators._ Vile. I can't _not_ take that bet. I should warn you, though…I get _really_ silly when I'm drunk."

Dorian really wanted to find out what he meant.

"Such a tragedy," he teased.

Something thumped nearby, and Dorian startled. Out here in the oak woods surrounding Redcliffe's farms, it was easy to imagine some detestable creature had wandered its way over in hopes of gorging itself. But no—out of one of the canvas tents came the dwarf Varric's voice, and Dorian realized he'd merely thumped his fist on the tent wall. "Count me in!"

Finn's eyes crinkled in amusement as he craned his head to see the tent over the campfire. "Weren't you supposed to have a headache from all of our bickering and bitching earlier?"

" _Please,"_ said the dwarf within the tent. "Nothing could stop me from taking a good bet, Frosty. Tell you what: I'll up the ante, but I get to pick the ale."

Dorian thought he'd taken an immediate liking to the short-statured man, but now he was wondering if he'd inadvertently befriended an actual sadist.

"Piss in it!" the elven girl, Sera, crowed from within her own tent, then giggled madly.

Dorian blanched.

"And you thought _I_ was the sadist," Finn muttered.

"You weren't joking about this odd bunch of yours," Dorian said. And he hadn't even met the bulk of them yet. The Inquisitor, Finn's sister, was en route to Haven just as they were, and Dorian imagined he'd have all sorts of strange fellows to meet once they rendezvoused somewhere along the road. He lifted his head and called to Varric, "be aware, dwarf, that it's _your_ boots I might vomit on."

"I'll take that chance," Varric said, like he'd taken that chance many times before. Then, with a thump and a rustle, he fell silent.

Finn yawned loudly next to Dorian, covered his mouth with a tanned hand. His ears twitched a little downwards as he did so, making Dorian wonder about the range of motion of an elf's long, pointed ears. His family had owned slaves, but Dorian hadn't himself, and regrettably hadn't spent much time studying their ear movements.

Something to add to the list of to-dos. Elven eyeshine was another thing Dorian wanted to study; _tapetum lucidum,_ he'd heard it called back home. Finn wasn't hard to spot in the dark, the way his pupils flashed bright green when he turned his head.

"I'm turning in for the night," Finn announced. "If my tent goes up in smoke, my corpse is blaming you."

Dorian half-smiled. "Fair enough."

He left Finn to his own devices and stood, making his way to the only unoccupied tent around the fire. Mutedly he heard Finn squabbling with Varric about something—shame Dorian couldn't understand precisely what they were saying—but he let it go and sat cross-legged on the tent floor, dragging a heavy fur blanket over his legs and opening a manual on Fereldan climates to a dog-eared page.

Looked like Haven would be even chillier than this. Drat.

Without warning someone pushed their way into the tent; Dorian looked up to see eyeshine and white hair. "You're not one for knocking, are you?" he asked Finn. "Varric gave you the eviction notice?"

"Yeah." Finn sat, letting the tent flap slip noisily back into place. "Exactly how does one knock on canvas?"

"With their knuckles, naturally," Dorian said. Not that he was objecting to Finn coming in here the way he did—coming in at all, really. "I suppose if you want to be exemplary and achieve the right sound, you could hold your staff up to the entrance and knock on that. Rather too late, though."

Finn leaned back on his hands and arched an eyebrow. "I guess I'm too plebeian for your fancy staff-knocking."

Staff-knocking almost sounded dirty, and Dorian almost snorted. "You're fancy enough to use the word _plebeian."_

"Maybe so," Finn said with a shrug.

Dorian assessed the situation. He certainly wasn't a stranger to having another man in his bed—tent, furs, what have you—but Finn didn't seem to be as blasé about the notion. If anything, the elven man actually looked slightly nervous.

No matter. Dorian was tired from trekking through this Fereldan wilderness, and he wouldn't let anything deny him sleep.

* * *

Dorian awoke to an unexpected situation.

He was lying on his back within the temporary mound of furs; that wasn't the unexpected part. No, that honor was reserved for the position Finn had ended up in.

The elf's head rested just below Dorian's chest, loose white curls of hair just tickling the fabric of Dorian's tunic. And his limbs were flung every which way, one tattooed arm draped loosely over Dorian's middle.

It was a…pleasant surprise, to put it bluntly. Dorian couldn't deny liking the sensation of another man lying on top of him like Finn was. Anyone else might have pushed him off, but Dorian decided to be greedy and hold on to the positioning for as long as Finn stayed asleep.

Not to mention Finn's body was _warm._ And the morning air was most assuredly not.

Of course, it didn't help that blood and heat had already started to rush straight to his groin. Dorian shifted a little, considered that new development, and grabbed the manual from the corner of the tent to distract himself.

Finn sighed in his sleep, his hand skimming the furs, coming to rest on Dorian's side. Dorian almost expected a subconscious grope, but Finn's touch was almost a soft caress as he curled his fingers a little, gently, then dropped his hand.

Dorian knew Finn hadn't meant to do that, but it was causing all sorts of unsavory reactions in Dorian's body all the same. He shifted again, trying to move so that Finn wasn't lying directly on his pelvis.

"Turn down the pancakes," Finn muttered, unconsciously nuzzling his cheek against Dorian's chest. "They're too purple. It makes them sad."

 _Maker's breath…_ Dorian clamped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh too loud, but a snort slipped through the cracks. Finn was _sleep-talking._ And it was pure, unadulterated nonsense—really, who was terribly concerned about melancholic pancakes?—and he pressed his hand against his mouth even harder, trying as hard as he could to stifle himself.

Eventually, he couldn't hold it in any longer. "If you say so," he answered, allowing himself a quick laugh to get it out of his system.

Finn stirred. Pressed his hand flat against the furs. Propped himself up a little. Forced his glassy eyes open.

All of a sudden he was scrambling upright with a sort of forced panic; Dorian casually flipped a page in the manual and looked up at him. Cold air flooded over him, its presence invited by the absence of Finn's warmth, and Dorian tried not to look too chagrined at that. The elf's hair was in a fluffed disarray from sleeping, his wintry blue eyes wide and fixed on Dorian's face.

" _Creators' balls,"_ he cursed. "Creators. Gods. _Shite._ I don't even… I am _so_ sorry—"

Above all, _that_ was what made Dorian lose it, dropping the manual on the furs and bursting into uncontrolled laughter. The fact that Finn was so frantically apologizing for something Dorian had secretly been enjoying, that Finn hadn't even _known_ he was doing but had probably subconsciously wanted it all the same… The situation was just too silly to remain serious about.

"Your subconscious couldn't resist, I take it," Dorian said; Finn developed an eye twitch. "No harm done. At least I got a space heater out of the deal. Your Fereldan nights are awfully _brisk._ "

It seemed Finn wasn't done trying to apologize. "I should have warned you." There was a slight flush under his tanned cheeks—embarrassment, or something more risqué? "I do that when I sleep. Sometimes. Not always. I did it to Solas the night before. It's a bad habit, I know, but I can't _control_ it, so there's _that…_ why, exactly, did you not throw me off?"

 _Because I wanted you to stay there,_ Dorian thought.

"You looked too content to move," Dorian said.

Finn looked mortified, still, but his eyes kept flickering to meet Dorian's gaze, their lids a little heavier now that he knew Dorian wasn't disgusted by his accidental cuddling. Anything _but._ If having a rather good-looking elf sprawling on top of him at night was Dorian's price for helping the Inquisition, then he was _more than happy_ to pay it.

"Seriously, I'm so sorry," Finn was saying. "If I ever do that again, feel free to slap me, punch me, throw a rock at me, roll me down a hill into a raging river, _anything._ Just, uh…no bears. Preferably."

Right. Dorian was more likely to roll on top of him than do any of those things.

"No bears," he said, just to ease Finn's internal suffering.

Finn cast one last look at Dorian, his eyes searching, then ducked out of the tent and left.

Dorian didn't want to get up just this second, so he shifted to a sitting position, rubbing his chin in thought.

Whatever he'd been expecting of Finn Lavellan the moment he'd met him…Finn had met absolutely zero of those expectations. And Dorian was immensely relieved by that.


	2. The Fine Art of Seduction

_A/N: Took a quick break from slaving over ToTL and UWSDWF to type up this silly thing._

* * *

 **Chapter Two:** After one too many ales in Skyhold's tavern, Finn decides to try and "seduce" Dorian with absolutely awful pick-up lines.

* * *

 **The Fine Art of Seduction**

Finn downed the last drop of his flagon of red ale, surveying Skyhold's tavern. The chattering of people and clinking of glasses was a pleasant din around him, a sort of relaxing hum in his sensitive elven ears. At this time in the evening the light filtering into The Herald's Rest was cozy and buttery-orange, giving the tavern a warm, relaxing feel.

Satisfied, he lowered his arm and thumped the flagon against the rough-hewn surface of the oak table.

"Careful there, _amatus,"_ Dorian said from next to him, tsking his tongue. He skimmed a warm hand down Finn's spine, resting it on the small of his back. "Isn't there some popular adage about 'breaking it and buying it'?"

"That'd only happen if I _broke_ the table," Finn said, patting it with the flat of his palm. The robin's-egg blue lines of _vallaslin_ along his forearm blurred and blended slightly in his vision from the movement. "And it knows better than to break."

"…you're drunk, aren't you?" It was phrased with barely any upwards inflection at the end, as though it was more of an assumption than a question.

"And you're sexy."

"That's a 'yes'." Dorian nonchalantly took a sip of his deep red pinot noir.

"I thought we were both stating the painfully obvious," Finn said.

Come to think of it, maybe that perpetual rushing sound in his head was his own inebriated dizziness. It suddenly made sense.

He dragged a hand through his own frost-white hair and glanced over at Dorian, studying him. One corner of the Tevene mage's mouth was pulled up into an amused smirk, his timberwolf grey eyes slightly heavy-lidded from wine. His skin looked as dark and smooth as brandy in the warm evening glow inside the tavern.

"I'm going to try something," Finn said, bracing his hand on Dorian's strong shoulder so he could climb off the bench and stand. "Sit right here."

"Do I even want to know what you're intending?" Dorian asked, lifting an eyebrow and taking another sip of wine, this one longer than the previous.

"I'm going to perform the feat of picking you up in a bar," Finn said with a cheeky grin, giving the back of Dorian's head a bit of an affectionate scratch.

"…Maker help us all."

"Oh, _stop,"_ Finn said, leaning briefly on one hip. "Trust me, it'll be fun."

"More terrifying words have never been spoken." But Dorian was obviously teasing, from the entertained look on his face. He smirked again, giving Finn a dismissive wave with the back of his hand. "Go on, then. You've got me curious now."

"Prepare yourself," Finn shot back, teasingly, then turned and strode off to another table.

He'd inadvertently picked the table Varric was sitting at; the dwarf had a whole mess of parchments spread on the table in front of him, and he was bent over one of them, a quill in hand. Finn swiped Varric's whiskey and took a swig.

"I was drinking that, Frosty," Varric said without even looking up. His quill pen made a continuous _scritch, scritch_ on the parchment.

"You can share one sip." Finn set the glass back down and gave Varric a pat on the shoulder. "Have to run. I'm trying to pick up Dorian."

"You're trying to—" Varric's head shot up, a grin on his face, and he set down the quill. "Andraste's ass. This I have to see."

"Wish me luck," Finn said.

"You don't need luck," Varric said. "You two are already—"

But Finn had already left Varric's table, approaching Dorian from behind and resting his hands on Dorian's shoulders. He wasn't certain, but he thought he could feel Dorian chuckling.

"Hey there," Finn said, experimentally trying to deepen his voice and wipe out some of the lilting Starkhaven accent. "I lost my last name. Can I have yours?"

Dorian audibly snorted.

"Sweet Maker," the fellow mage said, shaking his head amusedly and downing some more wine. " _That's_ what you lead off with? I can't say I have high hopes for the rest of your attempts."

"Ye of little faith," Finn said. "I suppose I'll have to try again?"

"Certainly," Dorian said. "Go on. Shoo. I do rather like the view of you walking away."

Drat. _Dorian_ was probably doing a better job than Finn was, and the former wasn't even trying. Thwarted, Finn turned and headed for Varric's table once again, figuring that was as good as any of a recharging point for him to think of an even more ludicrous pick-up line. He briefly leaned a hand against the table, thinking, as Varric looked up at him and tried to contain a laugh; then Finn pushed off the table and headed for Dorian again.

"Just so you know," Finn said, leaning on Dorian's shoulders and whispering in his ear, "if I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd remove the space between 'u' and 'i'."

Dorian breathed out a quick burst of a laugh through his nose. "The execution was good, I'll admit, but the line itself is just sad."

Finn wrinkled his nose. "You're impossible."

"Oh, I don't think so. I think you'll find me entirely possible if you'd quit scraping lines off the bottom of the metaphorical barrel."

Well, nothing left to do but try again. Finn returned to Varric's table, narrowly dodging a redheaded waitress cradling a dozen empty wooden mugs in her arms.

"Back for round three?" Varric asked.

"I'm shittier at this than I thought," Finn admitted, sitting on the side of the table.

"I never expected any less of you, Frosty," Varric joked. "Oh, and just so you know…you're loud enough to hear and I'm writing all of these down. They're pure gold."

"I'll probably hate you in the morning when I'm sober," Finn shot back, adding a grin to lessen the effect.

"And I probably won't give a shit," Varric said. "Come on, go pick up Sparkler and give me more hilarious ammunition."

"The things I do for you," Finn said, leaving him.

The room actually swirled a little, before he reached the table where Dorian was sitting. Whoops. No more stealing Varric's whiskey.

" _Soooo…"_ Finn drawled, moving to Dorian's side and looping an arm around his shoulders. "Nice pants. I think they'd look great on my bedroom floor."

Dorian nearly spat out his wine.

"Maker's breath, _no,"_ Dorian said, recovering and letting his forehead thump down on the table's surface.

"It wasn't _that_ bad."

" _Au contraire._ " Dorian lifted his head, turning to look at Finn."It might have been the worst one yet."

"Well, fuck me sideways," Finn said. "I'm all out of ideas."

Dorian raised an eyebrow, his gaze darkening. "You know, if you keep issuing challenges such as that, I might have to answer them."

What— _oh._

"Should I go along _those_ lines, then?" Finn asked with a wink, straddling the bench next to Dorian and leaning his cheek on his shoulder.

"You're getting there." Dorian tilted his head to press a swift kiss to Finn's forehead.

Finn made a purring noise by rolling his tongue. "Tell you _everything_ I want you to do to me?"

"Mmm. That's better."

"Maybe…do this?" Finn grazed his teeth on Dorian's shoulder, over the fabric of his tunic, keeping his ice-blue eyes fixed on Dorian's grey ones.

He _could_ have—and would have—performed more acts with his mouth and teeth, but Dorian was already getting up off the bench. Finn followed suit, wondering if Dorian just didn't want him to go too much farther while in public. Then Dorian stooped, grabbed Finn around the middle, and flung him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"Taking me somewhere?" Finn said, making his voice a little throaty. " _Forcibly?"_

"What can I say?" Dorian gave Finn's rear a light smack as he headed for the stairs. "You expertly seduced me."

"So you're saying I should try this again sometime."

Dorian chuckled as he carried Finn up the steps. "No…let's not go that far."


	3. Meat Me in the Middle

_For those of you who also check out my AO3 account, you'll know I had this up and running there a few days ago and completely forgot to post it here. Sorry, guys! I derped. Also, because apparently this was not clear on AO3: the title isn't a typo. It's a dumb pun. :P_

* * *

 **Chapter Three:** a hyped-up-on-something Hawke makes Finn a bet: that he can't possibly seduce Dorian with the use of bad puns.

Challenge accepted.

* * *

Finn Lavellan wrapped both hands around the warm mug of fresh cappuccino, leaning back in the cozy armchair with a sigh of contentment. The smell of hot coffee steamed up from the mug and wafted around his face; he breathed in deeply several times, savoring the scent.

"Frosty," Varric said, joining him and sitting on the loveseat across from him, "I don't think I've ever seen you ask for _coffee._ You're usually an ale guy."

"It's eight in the morning, Varric," Finn reminded him, looking about the local coffee shop. It was a bustling hour of the day, exhausted workers from all around trying to get their morning dose of caffeine before heading into work. Finn had spied Varric in here, writing, just as he'd gone to get his own leisurely morning coffee; naturally, he'd decided to pester the dwarf into conversation.

Not that Varric usually minded.

"Perfect time for mimosas," River Hawke said, plopping down on the couch next to Varric and taking a sip of what smelled to Finn like hot chocolate.

"Shouldn't you both be at work?" Varric asked, typing away at his computer, his keyboard clicking.

Finn shook his head. "No work today."

Hawke snorted. "Work? Varric, why would I ever work? My _point_ in life is to fatally screw up things and laugh about it as I'm doing it. Then justify the entire thing later with sarcasm, bad puns, and a cheesy smile. It's my _calling."_

A couple of businessmen passed their seats with arms laden with coffee; both looked down and gave Hawke wrinkled noses before walking off and continuing on with their lives.

"I don't see you screwing up anything at the moment, somehow," Varric said, snickering, as he continued typing. "Unless there's poison in Finn's coffee."

"Wouldn't be a bad way to go, dying in a warm coffee shop," Finn said. "Just tell Dorian to make sure there's beer at my funeral. Actually, a full bar would be great. Shame I wouldn't be able to attend."

Hawke took another sip of hot chocolate, then peered over at Finn like she was masterminding some great and terrible evil.

Varric stopped typing. "You're about to be in deep shit, Frosty."

"You know, Finn," Hawke said, crossing one leg over the other, "you haven't told me how you and Dorian are doing lately."

"Good, as usual." Finn smiled nonchalantly and drank some more of his cappuccino, feeling it slip hot down his throat and warm up his insides. "He's got a half-day at work today, so he'll be home earlier than normal."

Hawke clicked her nails against her mug. "And how's your _love_ life?"

"…good?"

"Any new…positions lately?"

Finn nearly spat out his coffee.

"Andraste's ass, Hawke," Varric said, "you can't just go around asking people if they've tried any new positions lately."

"So says you." Hawke shrugged. "I asked Zevran and he spent ten minutes describing it. Then I asked Morrigan and she glared death at me for a full minute before reminding me her and Corvis's private life was _private_ and walking away. Iron Bull actually emailed me a bunch of website links so I could see for myself. Oghren laughed and belched. At least, I think it was a laugh. Josephine looked like she wanted to die. Cullen—"

Varric tilted his laptop's screen down so he could cross his arms over his chest and look fully at Hawke. "I'm almost ashamed to know you."

"No you're not. But you interrupted me fiddling with Finn's love life."

"Oh, joy of joys," Finn said.

Hawke gave him a contemplative look. "How much do you like bets?"

"A lot." He and Dorian had made quite a few of them in the past. Inconsequential ones, usually, but those were the most fun. "Just don't try to get me into another drinking contest. Some memories don't need to be relived."

"Hmm…how about this." River tucked her thick black hair behind her ears. "I'll bet you that you _can't_ seduce Dorian tonight."

Finn chuckled. "You're going to lose that one. All I have to do is sit on him."

And Dorian had a decently high sex drive—something to do with his Tevinter heritage, Finn had always suspected—and was almost always up for anything. He didn't know why River would make a bet she'd immediately lose, but he wouldn't question it.

"No, no, there are _rules."_ She grinned widely. "You have to incorporate a _liberal_ use of bad puns…and they have to involve common household objects."

"For fuck's sake— _Hawke."_ Varric looked like he was trying to disapprove of her marginal insanity, but also trying to stifle his own laughter at the same time. "You _know_ Sparkler gets all groany when there are shitty puns involved. Let's not actually try to ruin Frosty's relationship?"

Finn lifted his coffee mug in an imaginary toast. "I'll take that bet."

Varric scrubbed his own forehead, and Hawke lifted a fist in the air, nearly punching a passing businesswoman in the chin.

Still clutching the mug in one hand—and probably going to steal it, if he was being serious with himself—Finn braced the other hand on the chair's arm, getting to his feet. "Alright. I'm off. Wish me luck."

"Isn't Dorian at work?" Hawke asked.

Finn nodded. "But now I have to head to the grocery store and buy everything I can possibly make a pun with."

"Andraste guide your path, my friend," Hawke said, settling deeper into the loveseat.

Varric just waved a farewell, then snickered quietly as he resumed typing.

* * *

Finn figured there was a good chance Dorian would actually set the apartment on fire once he hit him with his entire mental arsenal of puns. He'd probably have to space them out over the course of the afternoon and evening, if he didn't want to provoke the other mage to homicide.

He plopped on the couch in their apartment with a bowl of chips and turned on a pointless television show, waiting for Dorian to get home.

It didn't take long; Finn must've spent more time perusing the grocery store than he'd previously thought. About midway into the show the apartment door swung open—Finn didn't have to look to know it was Dorian, even with the sitcom on the television a continuous drone in his ears. He'd memorized the sound of Dorian's footfalls long ago.

"Hello, _amatus,"_ Dorian greeted from behind the couch. Warm hands found Finn's ice-white hair and ruffled it a bit; then Dorian pressed a kiss to the top of Finn's head. "I can only begin to guess how much you missed me while I was away."

Finn grinned, grabbed a cashew off the table, and swiveled around on the couch. Then he presented it to Dorian, who raised an eyebrow and held his palm flat.

"Being without you drives me nuts," Finn said, handing him the cashew.

Dorian stared down at the cashew in his palm for several seconds before sighing fondly and shaking his head. "I don't know what I expected."

"At least it's _true,_ though. So there's that." Finn was always excited to see Dorian, no matter how recently he'd seen him or how short any absence had been. Varric had compared him to a dog on more than one occasion. Not that he minded. "So, since you've got the rest of the day off…what did you want to do today?"

"I wouldn't be opposed to going out and eating," Dorian said, slinging his briefcase onto the couch with a heavy thump. "Or having a drink. Although I suppose that's something we do quite often."

"You want to get…" Finn reached into the space between the couch cushions and grabbed a can, holding it up, "…skintimate?"

Dorian gave him an incredulous look.

"Did you really?" he asked, glancing at the brand name on the can. "Did you really buy an entire can of women's shaving cream just to make that pun?"

"…possibly," Finn said. He had no other excuse; elves didn't have enough body hair, if any, to ever justify shaving.

"Dear Maker, I'm starting to see a trend." Dorian rolled his eyes and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of the couch. "How many puns are you going to chuck my way, exactly? Should I anticipate losing my sanity and murdering you in a fit of fiery passion?"

"Isn't that _always_ on the table?" Finn asked.

"It's a wonder you've survived this long, isn't it?" Dorian teased. "You're lucky my patience is just as extraordinary as the rest of me."

"You like the attention and you _know_ it," Finn said, grinning.

Hawke was going to owe him _big._

* * *

Finn had high hopes for his chances of success when Dorian asked if he'd like to join him while he showered.

Naturally, Finn joined him in the shower. What kind of vapid moron refused an offer such as _that?_ Dorian looked damn good in his usual state—well-dressed, combed hair, aristocratically proper and confident—but _wet_ Dorian was a masterpiece. The shower water drenched and tousled his hair just so, making it an even sleeker obsidian black, and the sight of water running in thick rivulets down his dark shoulders and chest made Finn drool enough to fill a small lake.

The only problem that usually arose was the difference in temperate; Dorian liked his showers boiling-lava-hot, and Finn liked them Frostback-mountain-cold. Normally, they compromised and ended up slightly hotter than lukewarm. Today, though, hoping to get into Dorian's _very_ good graces—and his pants—Finn went all in and agreed to a hot shower.

"You're wilting, darling," Dorian was saying at present, grabbing a bottle of shampoo—some ridiculously expensive, herbal-infused concoction that kept his hair in perfect condition and was probably made with blood magic—and squeezing a glob of white gel into his palm.

"And you're sexy," Finn said, finding it a little difficult to breathe with all the steam in the bathroom.

He liked the pounding of shower water against his bare shoulders, though, and he liked to tilt his head just so, letting the water massage his frequently sore trapezius. He did that now, closing his eyes and humming happily.

"Isn't that your answer to everything?" Dorian chuckled, audibly rubbing the shampoo around in his hands. "Don't mistake my questioning for _complaining,_ though."

"I just like to tell you," Finn said, cracking his eyes open.

His inclination would be to tackle Dorian—not literally, unless they really wanted to slip and crack their heads open—and start a makeout session with the assurance that it would obviously lead to sex, but that would be cheating. Hawke had clearly stated he had to seduce Dorian _with bad puns._ And Finn staked his reputation on his honor, even if it meant upholding ridiculous terms.

Dorian wasn't usually turned on by terrible jokes. Amused, yes, but not aroused. Still—joining him in the shower was a step in the right direction. Already being naked probably made the odds a little better.

He watched Dorian soap up his hair, just letting the water drench his own. It felt good, droplets drumming against the back of his skull.

"You should try this soap, _amatus,"_ Dorian said. He was forever trying to get Finn to style his hair, which was normally a fluffed tumble of thick white waves that nearly reached his shoulders. "Not that I don't appreciate your hair as it is. But it's my duty to enforce a certain standard of hygiene."

Finn winked, picking up the same bottle of expensive shampoo. "I'll give you a duty."

Dorian cast him a suspicious look, probably wondering why Finn had suddenly complied. "And what might that be?"

"Fork me," Finn said, grabbing said utensil with the other hand and holding it up.

Dorian stared at him, _Stared_ with a capital S, for no less than ten seconds straight.

"You brought a fork into the shower," he said.

"The sky is blue," Finn said, in answer.

"Finn." The Tevene mage reached out to cup his bare shoulders, thumbs bumping over the ends of his clavicles. "As 'forkable' as you always are, I'm not entirely certain why the puns have to be thrown into the fray."

"Because I loofah you?" Finn said, pointing at the mentioned showering implement.

"Sweet Maker." Dorian rolled his eyes, then leaned down to give Finn a quick kiss on the lips. "The sentiment is cute, but I'm not sure it entirely answers the question."

Well, the preferred method—the honest method that didn't break Hawke's imposed rule—didn't seem to be working. Time for Plan B. What _was_ Plan B? Did Finn even _have_ a Plan B? Shite.

"I know," Finn said. Trying to brainstorm, he set the fork down outside the shower, then squeezed some of Dorian's shampoo into his hands and set about scrubbing it into his hair. It lathered between his fingers, feeling like a mound of frothy soap piled on his head. Smelled nice, though; rather like mint and lemongrass.

It all had the effect of making Finn sleepy. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the shower's stream slough the foaming shampoo out of his hair.

Or maybe that was the hot water's doing.

As an ice mage, Finn had built up his tolerance to the cold quite thoroughly, but his heat tolerance left something to be desired. At Josephine's Satinalia dinner last year, he'd been trying to help her cook and had almost passed out from the heat radiating from the stove. At the Wintersend party at Leliana's house not long after, he'd burned his tongue on hot chocolate that Dorian had insisted was "not that hot."

It _was,_ Finn had insisted, with a lump of burnt tongue in his mouth, _that hot._

"Finn." Dorian cupped his face in both hands and righted his head; Finn realized he'd closed his eyes and lolled his head back like his neck had suddenly lost all muscle capability. "Don't you think that isn't the opportune place to take a nap?"

"Yeah," Finn said with a lazy smile. "Falling asleep in here would be a missed steak."

"A mista—I'm not even going to correct you. Nor point out the fact that you didn't have a piece of steak locked and loaded for that pun. Although I suppose I just did." Dorian reached behind Finn to shut the water off. "Come along. I can tell when you're about to have a rather unfortunate siesta."

"I'll unfortunate _your_ siesta," Finn said, winking. He swayed a bit on his feet, barely able to see through the steam in the room—or was that because his eyes were closing against his will?

"That's wonderful, love." Dorian apparently forfeited the notion of getting towels in favor of bending to hook an arm under Finn's legs and scoop him up, the other arm curled around his back. He stepped gracefully out of the shower, droplets of hot water plinking on the floor beneath them.

Finn sighed dreamily, plopping his head on Dorian's shoulder and letting the other man carry him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He'd long since gotten used to the fact that Dorian _could_ carry him, and often was inclined to do so—those gorgeous muscles of his had to come in handy for something. As the steam cleared, replaced by the untarnished air of the bedroom, Finn's mind cleared as well; he was waking up some when Dorian plopped him on the bed, still dripping wet.

"I'm soaking the sheets," Finn said, shifting onto his back and relaxing anyway.

Dorian snickered. "I'm fairly certain we've done worse." He sat and combed a hand through Finn's wet hair. "I'm not entirely sure why you agreed to such a hot shower. You know as well as I do that you can't tolerate the heat."

"I was…" Shite. Tell him about the bet, or _don't_ tell him about the bet? Quite the moral dilemma.

"You were…yes? Normally you're a tad more obstinate about the temperature. Something on your mind?"

Oh no. Duck and cover. Stop drop and roll. Perform evasive maneuvers. Finn was an absolute shite liar, and he was fairly certain that caving and telling Dorian the nature of the bet would render the bet invalid. Then he'd have to try to lie to Hawke, and he could only imagine how awfully that attempt would go.

"Nothing on my mind," he said. "Nothing at all. Nope. Why would there be? Thinking about things is stupid. I don't like thinking. I'm brain-dead. It's true. Don't you start doubting me. This relationship has to have _trust_ for it to work, Dorian."

 _Nicely done, self,_ he thought wryly. _What a beautiful lie you crafted there. Truly a masterpiece._

"That was about as believable as the notion of Iron Bull being a skittish virgin, Oghren being sober, or Zevran making Chantry vows and becoming celibate." Dorian lifted an eyebrow—aristocratically, of course.

Finn crossed his arms behind his head and blew a breath out through his mouth. "I kind of maybe completely made a bet with Hawke."

"Oh, no."

"And she kind of maybe completely bet me that I couldn't, er, get in your pants with the use of bad puns strictly involving household objects."

"That Hawke woman is the mastermind behind every bad idea ever born." Dorian shook his head, laughed, and rested a hand on Finn's bare, _vallaslin-_ covered chest. "I might commend you for sticking so dutifully to your orders, though. A most impressive feat."

"Mm." Finn rested his hand on top of Dorian's. "I'm going to assume my chances at winning the bet just took a nosedive into solid zilch."

"We'll see, won't we?" Dorian said, bending down to kiss the back of the hand Finn had just put on top of his. Then he extracted his hand and rose, disappearing into the bathroom and reappearing with a towel wrapped around his hips. "Goodness knows I'm not about to sabotage the wager you two so thoughtfully put together. But, for the moment—are you hungry? I think you should eat something."

Ah, right, because he'd nearly passed out in the shower like a complete loser. Finn didn't bother sitting up. "Do we still have that bowl of strawberries in the fridge? Oh, and a banana."

Dorian's perpetually raised eyebrow arched even higher, but he briefly left the room, retrieving the fruits. He seemed skeptical about Finn's entire existence when he brought back a bowl of sugared strawberries and a single unpeeled banana.

"Thanks," Finn said, sitting up and taking the proffered bowl of strawberries. He bit into one, savoring the burst of sweet juices on his tongue.

Dorian watched him, still skeptical.

"So, Dorian…" Finn eyed the half-eaten strawberry in his fingers. "I'd like to…report a strobbery."

Dorian _almost_ groaned. Finn saw it about to happen, saw him swallow it down when he glanced at the strawberry Finn held. "Alright. And what is the nature of this strobbery?"

"You stole my heart," Finn said.

Someone might as well have doused the room in melted mozzarella—it was _that_ cheesy.

Dorian breathed a quick breath of a laugh through his nose, then leaned forward to kiss Finn's forehead. "I'll admit, you're being quite adorable even while you fry my mind with atrocious puns."

Finn grinned, eating the strawberry before trying anything else. He licked his fingers when he was done, sucked on the last bits of juice, then reached for the banana. "Would you say you find me…" He held up the banana. "…a-peel-ing?"

In one decently swift motion, Dorian grabbed the banana, chucked it across the room, and pinned Finn to the mattress. Finn barely caught a breath before the other man was kissing him, lowering himself to press their bodies flush together.

"Mmmph." Finn made a soft hum of approval and turned his head—to breathe, then talk. He shifted his legs, crooking them so Dorian's weight rested between his thighs. "Did that actually…?"

"You have my permission to inform Hawke your atrocious puns aroused me." Dorian punctuated the statement by dropping his head to the crook of Finn's neck and kissing him roughly there.

Finn thought about that for a second.

Then decided thinking was stupid right now—there was something _much_ better to be doing.

* * *

The next day, Finn lucked out and found River Hawke grabbing lunch at one of the local cafés with Isabela.

It was one of those cafes with a noticeable island theme, complete with painted wooden palm fronds decorating the posts of the outdoor patio at the side of the restaurant, waiters wearing loose, button-down shirts with tacky flower prints, and ukulele music playing over the loudspeakers. The soft scent of plumeria lingered around the building, probably made by air freshener in the vents or whatnot.

He reassured the woman at the front podium that he was meeting a friend within the café and wouldn't stay long or need personal services. Then he made his way to Hawke's table, serpentining through a maze of seats and bustling waiters.

"And you won't _believe_ what I heard the other day," Isabela was in the process of saying, tracing patterns in the frosted mist on her glass of what looked like a piña colada. "Apparently coconut oil can be used as a—"

"Hey! Sorry to interrupt," Finn greeted, stopping at the side of the table.

"Hey, you," Hawke greeted, just as Isabela said, "always nice to see _you,_ sweet thing," accompanied by a hand lightly swatting Finn's arse. Isabela was one of those chronic arse-grabbers; if she _didn't_ greet you by touching your rear, you knew you were in bad standings.

"I won't stay long," Finn promised. Hawke turned curious peacock-green eyes up at him. "I just wanted to let you know that I won your bet and I expect some form of winner's purse."

Hawke's jaw dropped.

"What bet?" Isabela immediately looked intrigued. " _Hawke._ You made a bet and didn't tell me about it?"

"It was only yesterday!" Hawke protested. "How—"

Finn snickered. "You underestimate me."

Hawke tried to take a drink of ice water, sputtered, and failed. Her swallow was loud and looked awkwardly done. "Here's the thing, Finn—I hadn't actually decided what I would give you if you won. Because I was completely convinced Dorian would never respond to an onslaught of bad puns. I mean, I don't know the details, but…shit."

"Tell you what." Finn leaned on one hip. "You don't have to pay me anything— _if_ you can accomplish the same thing with Fenris."

Isabela burst into rather contagious laughter—Finn almost joined in.

"Oh, bollocks," Hawke said. "Fuck on a stick. Maker's gilded underwear. I think I have no choice but to accept." She buried her head in her hands in a gesture of mock anguish. "Fenris is going to murder me alive."

"Well," Finn said, "I'm looking forward to hearing about your results."

And with that, he left the table, finally allowing himself to snicker as he wove his way out of the café.


End file.
